


The Night Without Sam

by lifeofsnark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, But worth the read, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Gen, This fills in time-gaps, really feelsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:23:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This attempts to fill in the missing time in Swan Song- Dean’s drive to the cemetery and his journey to Lisa, most notably. It focuses on the bond between the brothers and how each of them only wanted to save the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Without Sam

“What exactly are you afraid of? Losing? Or losing your brother?”

Bobby’s words echoed in Dean’s head, a Cassandraic prophesy come true. Dean had lost his brother, but he had no body to burn, no graveside at which to mourn. No, Dean had lost his brother in an abandoned neighborhood in Detroit, but his brother’s body was still able to walk away.

They’d entered the battered apartment building as a pair, as the Winchesters, but only one came out. In a burst of red-white light, like the death of a star, Lucifer had entered Sam’s body. For a minute or two- the seconds stretched and vivid, made almost technicolor by the fear and adrenaline and hope coursing through Dean- he’d thought Sam had done it. Dean had believed that the demon blood cocktail and his brother’s own stubborn strength had been enough to harness Satan. But then Sam- well, Lucifer- had turned away from the gaping black portal in the wall and smiled at Dean.

It was Sam’s face doing the smiling- all the same muscles and tendons and dimples- but it wasn’t Sam’s smile. No, this didn’t quite reach his eyes, and it pulled a little too much to one side. This was a sneer; the cocky grin of an archangel who had managed to bring Dean’s worst fears to life.

After the portal closed, there had been a shock of silence in the room. Quietly, almost gently, Lucifer had said, “I told you this would always happen in Detroit.” And then he’d disappeared, taking Sam with him.

Dean had wandered out of the building, his feet sometimes staggering beneath him.

Lucifer had taken Sam. The devil had been unleashed to walk the earth; the End of Days was underway, and all Dean could think-

All he could hear, echoing in his head-

Was, “What are you afraid of? Losing? Or losing your brother?”

His brother was lost.

Jerkily he drove back to the outskirts of the city where Bobby and Cas waited. He drove through the mayhem and destruction of what remained of Detroit- fires and police cars and weeping people turned into a multi-colored blur by his tears.

Bobby tried to comfort Dean, telling the younger man that it had been a long shot anyway; that the world was always going to end like this. Castiel had been even more blunt, informing the elder Winchester that it was over, that it was all over.  

That was what finally broke through the fog, what pierced the haze of panic and grief wrapped around Dean’s brain and finally got him functioning again. This was the part of his brain that had rebelled against the petty teachers in school; the part of himself that wanted to give fate and God and whoever was listening the finger. Dean didn’t do well when told what to do, and it was that stubborn pride that brought him back to reality.

Castiel didn’t know where the fight was supposed to go down. Dean accepted that, but he had come too far and given up too much- given up everything, in fact- to turn back now. Sitting in the Impala, the only home he’d ever known, he flipped open his phone and scrolled through the contacts, his thoughts more cold and precise than they’d ever been before. Dean was going to find a way to save Sam, there was no other option. There was nothing else. He didn’t care who or what he had to take apart along the way; without Sam, this world could go hang.

He knew there was someone who could help- there was a prophet of the Lord, a prophet currently working on the Winchester Gospel. Chuck knew things that even the boys and the angels didn’t know.

Before, when Dean or Sam had called Chuck asking for information the man had balked, saying that interrupted causality and the flow of the universe and only relenting after being roundly threatened. This time Chuck seemed only too happy to comply with Dean’s demand for the location of the celestial battle. It would occur to Dean later- much later- that Chuck was the only other organism in this universe that could truly comprehend how he was feeling.

Chuck gave him the information, “Tomorrow, at high noon, in Stull Cemetery outside Lawrence.” Dean was surprised- of all the graveyards in all the world, Satan walked his brother into that one.

“Really? Lawrence?” he ran his fingers through his already mussed hair, the other one holding the hot phone painfully tight against his ear.

“I guess it has to end where it started,” Chuck had replied, his voice resigned.

Bobby and Cas had tried to talk Dean out of going. Castiel had looked into Dean’s eyes- the blue peering slightly up into the misty green- and had stated in his gravelly monotone, “The only thing you are going to see in that field is Michael killing your brother.”

Dean hadn’t reacted, hadn’t even flinched. He’d just jingled the keys to the Impala and calmly replied, “Well, then I ain’t gonna let him die alone.” He’d slid over the worn leather seat of the long black car and started the engine, taking no pride in the way she’d purred. Dean was painfully aware of the empty seat next to him, the spot that he would forever think of as Sam’s.

It had been a silent journey through the night, the Impala gliding along the roads like a jungle cat pacing the boundaries of its territory. No music played in the old speakers on this drive, and Dean’s grip on the wide, leather-wrapped wheel tightened with every mile he drove closer to Kansas.

It was in Lawrence, Kansas that Dean had become a big brother. Mary had brought Sam home from the hospital and had almost immediately placed the red-faced newborn in Dean’s lap on the old sagging sofa. Dean had looked down into the little face- carefully holding himself still- and had felt the seed of protectiveness grow. This was his little brother.

That little seed of brotherly love erupted violently one night six months later when baby Sam had been thrust into his arms by John Winchester. Dean had run through the house, the sound of his father’s howls and the crackling fire consuming everything. The air was thick with rancid smoke, even outside in the front yard. Dean stood, shifting his weight with adrenaline, and watched the top front windows burst from the heat within. He’d clutched Sam a little tighter, not even hearing the baby’s cries, just knowing that, at all costs, he had to keep Sammy safe.

Now, in Lawrence, it seemed that Dean was destined to become an only child once again.

On another day- in what felt like another life- Dean had turned to his brother and said, “So, screw destiny right in the face. I say we take the fight to them, do it our way.” He was still clinging to the hope that this would turn out okay the way a bereaved mother clings to the empty body of her child. The hope that Sam would still claw his way out of this; that Lucifer would not be walking the earth wearing Dean’s little brother.

The sun slowly came up, turning the horizon a pale shade of lavender as a grey day dawned. Dean didn’t know what he was hoping for- he’d been through too much to think that he and Sam would be walking away from this one- but he knew he didn’t want to see Sam gone. Dean didn’t want to die, not actively. He’d even promised Sam that he would live his life, that he would find Lisa. Dean hadn’t promised his brother that he wouldn’t die while trying to help.

Hours after leaving Bobby’s, what felt like years since Lucifer had taken Sam, Dean let the car idle just before the turn to the cemetery. His clock read 11:57. He fumbled in the glove box before pulling out a tape and jamming it roughly into the old player.

Def Leppard came pouring through the car and out the open windows, the screaming guitar a fitting and all too human background for this heavenly clash. He shoved the car in gear and slowly rolled past the groaning windmill by the entrance to the cemetery.

There was a long pause as two angelic brothers looked at Dean through the eyes of  _his_ brothers. He stared back through the clear windshield of his baby, Rock of Ages still playing strong, “ _Oh let’s go, let’s strike a light, we’re gonna blow like dynamite_.”

Dean slid out of the car without breaking eye contact. It was at that moment the sun came out, illuminating the tableau unfolding in the old boneyard below.

Dean didn’t stand quite as tall and straight as he usually did. Looking at Sam-who-wasn’t-Sam was physically painful, there was a piercing ache just under his ribs. Dean hadn’t know what he was doing here until just then- that moment that Lucifer peered at him from Sam’s sun-dappled-mountain-lake eyes.

Dean was going to piss off Lucifer.

Either way he was going to be okay with the results. There was a good chance Lucifer would kill him, and Dean was more than fine with that. He didn’t want to live in a world without Sam anyway. Dropping out of school, the hunting, selling his soul, saving the world- he’d started down each of those roads with just Sam in mind. It had always been about Sam.

The second option was that by infuriating Lucifer, Dean would distract him enough for Sam to take control.

Neither of those things came to pass under the weak sun in that dry Kansas field. With Cas and Bobby’s help, Dean made Lucifer so angry that he decimated Castiel, snapped Bobby’s neck, and then set about beating Dean to death.

Dean never punched back, never took a swing. It was still Sam’s body, and he knew his brother was in there somewhere. He was slumped against the driver’s door of his beloved car, with Lucifer whaling away at his face, when Dean mumbled through his broken jaw, shattered cheekbone, and bleeding lips, “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here.” A few painfully gulped breaths later, Dean managed to grind out, “I’m not gonna leave you. I’m  _not_  gonna leave you.”

Dean may have been laying, broken and bloody, in that Kansas cemetery, but he was remembering Sam as a gangly little kid with fine, floppy hair. After Sam’s sixth or seventh birthday, after he began to suspect what his father did, he had awful nightmares. Sometimes he would wake with a muffled yell. Other nights he would thrash, silent and clammy, until the warm palm and familiar voice of his brother woke him up. “It’s okay, it’s okay Sammy,” Dean would murmur, his weight creating a comforting dip in the mattress.

Sometimes Sam, still caught in the panic of his dream, would beg Dean not to leave. “I’m here, I’m not gonna leave you” he would always reply, and true to his word, Dean never went back to his own bed until Sam was asleep.

Now, decades later, they were living something neither of them had ever imagined. Sam was possessed by Satan himself, and it was his tight fist that was killing Dean.

It wasn’t Lucifer’s rage and focus on killing Dean that let Sam break through his hold.

It was Dean’s familiar voice and those magic words. Those words that were spoken so often in the deep silence of the early morning; that phrase that meant safety and peace.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

And like that, Sam suddenly had the strength to break free of his mental cage, to wrestle Lucifer down and to lock him in with every other nightmare he and Dean had ever stopped.

Sam looked down at his broken brother, his fist still clenched tightly in the air.

Dean looked up at his brother, his Sam, the only thing that had ever mattered in this terrible world, through the one eye that could still open.

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got him.”

Dean watched, blearily, as Sam opened the portal to Lucifer’s cage. He watched as Sam glanced back at him, so much fear and love and overwhelming  _strength_ in his eyes. Dean watched as Michael interrupted, watched as Sam grabbed the archangel in Adam’s body and dragged them both into the gaping chasm.

Dean dragged himself the few yards- they felt like miles- to the spot he had last seen Sam. Eventually he pulled himself into a kneeling position, and head down, he wept, the salt of his tears stinging in every cut and swelling bruise on his pummeled face.

Cas, resurrected, came to heal him after a few minutes- maybe hours, Dean didn’t know. Bobby was healed, and on autopilot Dean followed Bobby back to the junkyard. Cas left to police the chaos in heaven, and Dean had a promise to keep.

Dean got in the Impala and pointed it towards Lisa. He’d made his brother a promise, and he couldn’t go back on it now. Any right turns he made he made blind; he couldn’t stand to see the empty seat beside him. Sammy’s seat. The place his brother belonged.

Dean just drove on and on through the night, occasionally choking on an unsuccessfully smothered sob. Eventually he recognized the turn to her neighborhood, and let the Impala idle to a halt by the curb. He closed his eyes and rested his brow on the steering wheel, teeth gritted, jaw muscle twitching. Every bone, every fiber, ever molecule of his being screamed at him to find a way to bring Sam back; to make a deal with whatever god or demon or angel that would listen. It was never supposed to be Sammy. Dean had never regretted finding Sam at Stanford more. If he could take back what he said all those years ago, that he wanted Sam to come on the road with him, he would take it back in a heartbeat. He would take it  _all_  back, because then Sam would be somewhere out there, alive and well.

At some point Dean got out of the car and found himself staring at the front door. He couldn’t bring himself to hit the bell- bright, tinny, happy- so he banged a fist against the painted metal. He heard soft footsteps inside padding toward the front of the house.

Lisa pulled open the door, wondering who could possibly be coming by this time of night. To her shock, Dean Winchester was framed by the darkness, the porch light casting half his face in shadow. He looked up at her, and his eyes radiated so much pain that she reached out to take his hand in hers.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

He paused, the corner of his mouth turning up wryly.

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “If it’s not too late, I’d like to take you up on that beer,” he ground out, voice cracking halfway through.

He stepped forward into her embrace, wrapping his arms around her willowy frame. Dean leaned against her, slowly lowering his head to press it into the shadowed crook where neck and shoulder met.  He rested there for a minute, only focusing on the scent of her hair and keeping his breathing even. In and out. Just get air in and out.

It was his first night living without Sammy in the world.

It wouldn’t be his last.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did borrow a chunk of text from my fic What Could Have Been, so if you recognized it, I am proud of you! That fic has always bothered me, so I decided to splice the part I liked into this story.  
> I have wondered about Dean’s experiences in Swan Song for a while. There is a lot of time missing for him- the night before the battle and then the night/day between Sam falling in the pit and him arriving at Lisa’s door. I’m not entirely satisfied with the writing in this particular story, but it starts to hint at what I suspect he was thinking/feeling during the 48 hours or so of Swan Song.  
> If you agree with me, disagree with me, hate me for this, whatever, please let me know! I am but a small potato, desperate for whatever validation I can receive. (I'm on tumblr at winchestersandwordprocessors)


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